Now here's some brilliant news. My friend and ally, Viven Jones, has won the Poetry London Competition! How top-notch is that?
Read all about it here:
Viven and I are launching a new book (hers - About Time, Too) and a pamphlet (mine - Venti) together at the Wigtown Festival on Saturday, 25th of September. In a yurt, I believe. I am kind of hoping The King Of The Camels will come.
The Crichton Writers will also be launching the Crichton Writers 2010 Memoirs Album I Remember, I Remember... at The Old Bank Bookshop that same day.
So basically, if you're coming to Wigtown, make sure you're there on the 25th.
Here's my bit from I Remember, I Remember...
Sisters of Mercy
The dress is Marian blue, the blazer, navy. My mother loved the pink shoes so I, consequently, adored them.
I attend St Mary’s in Western Road, Mum hoping those paeans to femininity, with their hidden hair and flat leather sandals, will turn me into a young lady.
Pink shoes.
My eyes are open in the picture. I see because of what they taught me, and the lesson was this.
As Christmas approached we began to make a room-sized frieze on the walls of the classroom. It was the journey to Bethlehem. Sister Aiden said if we wanted to make anything for it at home we could, so that night my mother emptied a box of cooking matches (we had an Aga) and my father emptied five boxes of Swan Vestas (bought in bulk, smoking, as he did, pipes, cigars and roll-ups). With a lot of glue, and no further assistance, I made the Holy Virgin Mary’s donkey. The glue (copious) would not dry; it was left on the radiator in the front sitting room overnight.
In the morning there was no time to paint it, but I pencilled on eyes and beheld the perfect, patient, brown, furry donkey of my dreams. I fluttered on the walk to school, pre-basking in the praise I would receive.
On arrival, I solemnly presented my donkey to Sister Aiden, and the requisite praise was obtained. Classmates gathered, I glowed, the centre glory.
Until Gavin’s arrival. Overnight, Gavin’s mother had crafted a grey felt donkey, with embroidered eyes, mane and tail, a button nose and, hardest of all, brass curtain ring hooves. Sister Aiden said mine could be one of the Kings' camels.
“But it’s a donkey.”
Then I looked again at Gavin’s, then I looked again at mine. Mine was not a donkey. It was five glued-together matchboxes that still bore their makers’ legends. The veil was lifted: I could marry Christ.
I hot-tear walked to the suffering Jesus, looked up at the crossed, nailed feet and vowed. Vowed that no one would ever beat me again.
In the picture, you see me open-eyed. As I am.
The dress is Marian blue, the blazer, navy. My mother loved the pink shoes so I, consequently, adored them.
I attend St Mary’s in Western Road, Mum hoping those paeans to femininity, with their hidden hair and flat leather sandals, will turn me into a young lady.
Pink shoes.
My eyes are open in the picture. I see because of what they taught me, and the lesson was this.
As Christmas approached we began to make a room-sized frieze on the walls of the classroom. It was the journey to Bethlehem. Sister Aiden said if we wanted to make anything for it at home we could, so that night my mother emptied a box of cooking matches (we had an Aga) and my father emptied five boxes of Swan Vestas (bought in bulk, smoking, as he did, pipes, cigars and roll-ups). With a lot of glue, and no further assistance, I made the Holy Virgin Mary’s donkey. The glue (copious) would not dry; it was left on the radiator in the front sitting room overnight.
In the morning there was no time to paint it, but I pencilled on eyes and beheld the perfect, patient, brown, furry donkey of my dreams. I fluttered on the walk to school, pre-basking in the praise I would receive.
On arrival, I solemnly presented my donkey to Sister Aiden, and the requisite praise was obtained. Classmates gathered, I glowed, the centre glory.
Until Gavin’s arrival. Overnight, Gavin’s mother had crafted a grey felt donkey, with embroidered eyes, mane and tail, a button nose and, hardest of all, brass curtain ring hooves. Sister Aiden said mine could be one of the Kings' camels.
“But it’s a donkey.”
Then I looked again at Gavin’s, then I looked again at mine. Mine was not a donkey. It was five glued-together matchboxes that still bore their makers’ legends. The veil was lifted: I could marry Christ.
I hot-tear walked to the suffering Jesus, looked up at the crossed, nailed feet and vowed. Vowed that no one would ever beat me again.
In the picture, you see me open-eyed. As I am.
Now all I've got to do is make the bloody pamphlet. It's going to be an Artist's Book, you see. The poems are edited and ordered (Hugh1), I have consulted with the god of Roncadora Press (Hugh2) and the Nithsdale Design Collective (er, Sharon, Kirsty and me whilst assorted children were playing "Death Leap" on the stairs and others were on our laps) have met. Just I can't find a spare hour at the minute, let alone a few nights. Yikes.
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